


Flour Power

by TaleasOldasTimeandSpace



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Butterflybog - Freeform, Crochet, Dorks in Love, F/M, Fluff, Food Fights, If You Squint - Freeform, International Fanworks Day 2016, Valentine's Day Fluff, all other the place, and flour, and treasured, as well as lord of the rings, but griselda knows, crochet is the underdog of the fiber arts world and must be supported, doctor who refrences, griselda knows all, insane cackling, lots of insane cackling, not knitting, only they don't know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5966677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleasOldasTimeandSpace/pseuds/TaleasOldasTimeandSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marianne wants to give Bog a present, but she gets a little....distracted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flour Power

It wasn’t until Marianne had started her second round of knocking – well, pounding – on Bog’s door that she stopped to consider the fact that seven o’clock on a Saturday morning wasn’t generally considered to be an acceptable hour for a social call in most polite circles.  But late last night she’d finished the project she’d been working on for the last couple of months, and she couldn’t wait any longer to see the look on Bog’s face when she presented him with the finished product.

She briefly considered getting back in her car and fleeing the scene - to return at a less controversial hour - but resisted the urge, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin.  Flight was the way of the coward and the quitter, and she was neither of those.

Besides, maybe Bog was a morning person.

‘What kind o’ blitherin’ idiot starts bangin’ on a man’s door at th’crack o’ dawn?’  The bellow was muffled, but extremely irritated.  And it was coming closer.  Marianne winced. 

Bog was definitely _not_ a morning person.

The door wrenched open.  Marianne pasted her brightest smile on her face and prepared to do some _very_ fast talking.  It wouldn’t be difficult.  Morning always brought out Chipper Marianne.  It usually took a couple of hours and several cups of tea to tone down her morning cheerfulness into her usual snark.

‘What in th’blue blazes-Marianne?  What on earth are ye doin’ here at this hour?’

She blinked, all thoughts of charming her way out of the situation fleeing her mind as she stared at Bog.  He’d obviously just gotten out of bed.  His floofy reddish-brown hair was wild, and he was wearing grey plaid pajama pants, two t-shirts, and a ragged black hoodie.

‘Uh, Marianne?  Are ye alright?’  His bright blue eyes had gone from murderous to concerned as he waved a hand in front of her face.

She shook her head and snapped out of her daze.  Reaching out, she grabbed the front of his hoodie and pulled his face down to hers.  ‘Bog, listen to me.  This is very important.  Do you have flour?’

His eyebrows shot up, and he looked like he wanted to start backing away slowly.  She tightened her grip on the hoodie, just in case.  ‘Ah think so?’

‘Where?’

‘In th’kitchen, but-'

‘Right, come with me.’  She pushed past him into the house, dragging him behind her as she marched to his kitchen.  All those Dawn-organized baking days were finally going to pay off.

‘Marianne, what’s goin’ on?  Why d’ye need flour?  Marianne-'

She saw her target on the counter, in a container conveniently labeled ‘flour.’  Dawn had gotten everyone matching canister sets when she instigated the rotating baking days.  Bog’s were a dark green, Marianne’s purple, Sunny’s a cheery yellow, and Dawn’s an obnoxious pink.  She had to admit, they did come in handy from time to time.  Like now.

Without releasing her grip on Bog’s hoodie, she managed to pry open the flour container, grab a handful of flour, pull Bog forward, and dump it on his head.  There was utter, stunned silence.  She reflected that she probably wouldn’t have been able to do that if Bog had been fully awake.  She fished her phone out of her bag and snapped a picture before his shock could wear off.

Slowly, Bog straightened up, looming over her in the small space of the kitchen.  ‘Are ye _daft_ , woman?!  Why would ye attack me with mah own flour in mah own home?’  His accent always did get stronger when he was emotional.

‘ _This_ is why.’  She held out the phone.  With the flour lightening his hair, Bog bore an almost eerie resemblance to the Twelfth Doctor in his rebel timelord outfit.

He looked at the phone, looked up at her, looked at the phone again, and looked at her again.  The murder was returning to his eyes.  ‘Ye drag me out o’bed on th’ _one_ day Ah can sleep in, assault me in mah own home, and dump flour on mah head, just because ye think Ah look like Twelve?’

She started inching slowly towards the hall.  In retrospect, maybe that hadn’t been the best idea.  ‘Ummm, yes?’ 

He started stalking toward her.  ‘Ye couldnae have just _told_ me?’

She wondered if she could make it back to her car before he caught her.  Probably not.  ‘Ummm, no?’  She made a break for it, turning to dash down the hall.  He was right behind her, grabbing her around the waist just as her fingers grazed the doorframe.  He effortlessly picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.  Sometimes his height advantage just wasn’t fair.  As he carried her back down the hall, she pounded on his back.  ‘Bog, put me down!  Bog!  Come on, Bog!  I just needed to get the right effect!  Telling you wouldn’t have nearly the same impact as showing you!  Bog!’

When he swung her off his shoulder and tucked her horizontally under his arm, she realized he’d carried her back to the kitchen.  Her eyes widened in horror as he picked up the flour canister.  ‘Bog, no!  Think of your soul!  “Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord!”  Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit?  You don’t really want to behave in such a petty and childish-'  Her words were cut off in a fit of coughing as a cloud of flour enveloped her head.  Bog set her on her feet, and she heard a click as she tried to wipe the flour from her eyes.

‘What d’ye know,’ He remarked conversationally.  ‘With th’flour in yer hair, ye look just like Clara at th’end o’ Last Christmas.  Ah have proof.  Want t’see th’picture?’

She glared at him through her flour-dusted bangs, reached down, scooped up a handful of flour, and threw it in his smug face.

She barely had time to be grateful he set her phone safely on the counter before she dove for cover behind the island, narrowly missing a flour volley.  She returned fire with a missile of her own, but took a hit to the shoulder as she leaned out to aim.

‘Hah!  Take that, ye demented fairy!’  He was hiding behind the refrigerator, but her next handful exploded satisfyingly against his centre mass.

‘You’ll never take me alive, you kamikaze pine cone!’

‘Who wants ye alive?  Death t’the hobbit!’

‘You first, Uruk-Hai!  Your blood will water the field of battle before the sun rides high overhead!’

‘Ah will feed yer broken bones t’mah warg and feast on yer flesh!’

 

* * *

 

When Griselda pulled up some time later, she was understandably concerned to see her son’s door wide open.  As she stepped inside, she could hear voices coming from the kitchen.  Cautiously, she poked her head through the doorway, and her jaw dropped.  She didn’t know whether to dance for joy or bang her head against the wall in despair.  Maybe both.

Bog and Marianne were seated side-by-side on the kitchen floor, leaning back against the island.  The entire room was covered in flour, and they occasionally scraped up handfuls from the floor to toss at each other as they discussed the merits of the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit trilogies and compared them to the books.

‘All I’m saying is, Faramir never would have tried to take the ring from Frodo, let alone take him all the way to Osgiliath.  The whole point is that he wasn’t weak like Boromir when it came to resisting the temptation of the ring.’  Absently, Marianne dumped a handful of flour on Bog’s shoulder.

He returned the favour with a much larger handful on her head.  It didn’t really make much difference, since her normally dark hair was white with flour.  ‘Aye, Ah see what yer sayin’.  But they also were establishin’ how much he wanted his father’s approval, an’ th’fact that he _was_ tempted by th’ring.  That’s nae somethin’ that’s easy t’show in a movie.’

‘Yes, but it drives me _crazy_ when movies change a person’s character for the sake of “drama”.’  She made exaggerated air quotes, getting her elbows involved in the motion and bumping Bog in the process.

He laughed.  ‘Ah know.  That’s why ye can nae see Noah again.’

She groaned.  ‘Don’t get me started on Noah.  They turned him into a homicidal maniac!  It says right there in Genesis that he was a righteous man.  Righteous men do _not_ go around trying to kill babies!  It didn’t even advance the story!’

Griselda could see that Marianne was gearing up for a full-blown rant, which would probably result in Kitchen War 2, so she decided that now was a good time to announce her presence.  She cleared her throat.  Loudly.

They both jumped guiltily, Bog knocking his head on the edge of the counter, and looked up at her in shock.  She glared down at them, enjoying the sensation of being taller than her son.  That hadn’t been true since he was ten.  ‘What on _earth_ happened in here?  It’s like a mill exploded.  Or it snowed indoors.’  She crossed her arms.  ‘Frankly, neither would surprise me.’

Bog rubbed his head.  ‘Mom!  Hi!  Ah didnae know ye were comin’ over t’day.  This-' he waved a hand at the disaster area that was his kitchen ‘-is nae mah fault.  Ah was attacked by a psychopathic hobbit b’fore Ah’d even had mah coffee this mornin’.’

‘I _told_ you.  You just needed a little flour in your hair to look exactly like Peter Capaldi.  Maybe it wasn’t the best idea, but none of _this_ -' she mimicked his gesture ‘-would have happened if you had behaved like a responsible adult and not reacted by trying to drown me in flour.’

‘Responsible adult?!  _Ye’re_ the one who came t’ _mah_ house fer the sole purpose o’ dumpin’ flour on mah head!’

‘Actually, I came to give you something.  The flour fight was just a bonus.’  She sprang to her feet, walking over to a flour-covered bag on the counter.  She grimaced.  ‘This is going to take forever to clean.’

Bog hadn’t moved from the floor.  ‘An’ Ah’m nae cleanin’ up this kitchen!’  He caught Griselda’s eye, and amended, ‘At least, not by mahself.  Ye’ll be helpin’, Tough Girl.’

Griselda’s heart melted at the nickname.  She was sure he didn’t realize the way his eyes softened when he called Marianne that, or the way his voice warmed, even in the middle of one of their arguments.  It had been so long since her boy was happy.

Marianne waved a hand over her shoulder.  ‘Yeah, yeah.  Whatever, Treebeard.’  She was pulling out random items from her bag, including a book, keys, sunglasses, wallet, a brick, a chocolate bar – Ghirardelli – a purple Swiss army knife, a replica sonic screwdriver, one of those light up lightsaber chopsticks – Griselda was pretty sure she’d seen its twin in Bog’s stuff - and a small can of pepper spray.

Griselda raised an eyebrow at Bog.  ‘Treebeard?’

He shrugged.  ‘She decided Ah’m so tall, Ah must be an ent.’

She nodded thoughtfully.  ‘That does make sense.’

‘A- _ha!’_   Marianne whirled around with a triumphant grin, holding a largish object wrapped in an opaque plastic bag.  She thrust it in Bog’s face.  ‘Open.  Now.’

He took it gingerly.  ‘But it’s nae mah birthday,’ he said in mock confusion.  There was excitement and trepidation in his face, as if he was thrilled Marianne was giving him something, and terrified of what it might be.  Knowing the relationship they had, probably better than they knew themselves, Griselda felt like those were reasonable emotions to have.

‘Oh for crying out-just open it, pine cone.  Open, says me.’  Marianne was practically dancing with excitement as she watched Bog open the bag.

He looked into the bag and his eyes widened comically.  ‘Is that-'

Marianne grinned smugly, folded her arms, and crossed one leg in front of the other.  ‘Yes.  Yes it is.’

‘Ah cannae believe-'

‘I _told_ you I was going to do it.’

‘Aye, but Ah didnae think ye were serious.’

‘What, you doubt my abilities?  I have _skills,_ man.’

‘Ah _know_ that, but ye never struck me as th’crafty kind.’

Her grin turned evil.  ‘I assure you, I am very crafty.’

He rolled his eyes at her.  ‘Ye know what Ah mean.’

She laughed.  ‘Yeah.  You expected something like this from Dawn.  Well let me tell you, she can’t crochet a chain to save her life.  She’s a sorceress with a sewing machine and a baked-goods fairy in the kitchen, but hand her a ball of yarn and you’ll have to come back in five minutes to free her from the tangle she got herself in.’  She held up a finger.  ‘True story.  I actually did have to release her from a ball of yarn.  She’d managed to tie herself up completely.  It was pretty funny.’  She pointed at the bag.  ‘And before you ask, that is crochet, _not_ knitting.  Get it wrong, and I will use one of my hooks to rip your brain out through your nose, mummification-style.’

Griselda appreciated the fact that her son had found a girl who was willing to threaten him in front of his mother, but she was dying to know what was in the bag.  ‘For Pete’s sake, what is it, Bog?  You’re going to drive me crazy if you don’t pull it out.’

They both jumped, and she realized they’d been so busy flirting – that is, ‘arguing’ – that they’d forgotten she was there.  How sweet.  ‘Right, sorry Mom.’  Bog pulled a large roll of knitted – no, _crocheted_ – fabric out of the bag.  He got to his feet and slowly unwound it, draping it around his neck as he did so.  It was a scarf.  A really, _really_ long scarf, with a pattern of large, irregular blocks of colour.  It took her a minute to place it, although the length alone should have given it away.  ‘Is that a Doctor Who scarf?’

Bog and Marianne looked at each other, then turned to her with matching smirks.  ‘Yes.  Yes, it is,’ they said in unison, before dissolving into cackles at their own cleverness.  She shook her head.  Sometimes, she just wanted to smush their faces together and say, ‘Now, kiss,’ and hold them there until they finally realized how perfect they were for each other.  It often seemed like outside intervention would be the only way they would ever acknowledge their feelings.

Well, maybe she could move things along with a nice, subtle hint.  ‘Wow, Marianne.  That must have taken you forever.’

Marianne shrugged.  ‘Eh, couple of months.  Nothing major.’

‘I think it’s sweet of you.  But why didn’t you just wait and give it to him tomorrow?’

Her question met with twin blank expressions.  ‘Why?’ Marianne asked in confusion.  ‘What’s so special about tomorrow?’  Bog nodded, equally puzzled.

‘February fourteenth?’

Marianne quirked an eyebrow at Bog, who spread his hands helplessly.

‘ _Valentine’s Day?’_

It was rather interesting to watch the dawning realization followed by utter horror as it spread across their faces.  They both turned bright red, Marianne starting in her cheeks and spreading down her neck, Bog starting at the tips of his ears until his entire face looked like a beet.  The colour was bright enough to show up clearly through the dusting of flour they both wore.  They immediately started talking over each other.

‘Oh, _no-'_

‘It’s naethin’ like that!’

‘I didn’t mean-'

‘Valentine’s day’s against mah religion, an’-'

‘I would never-'

‘Well, neither would _Ah-'_

'Actually, I think I should probably be going.’  Marianne turned and started stuffing things back in her bag.

‘Now, wait jus' a minute!’  Bog picked up the ends of his scarf so they wouldn’t drag in the flour - although since he was covered in the stuff, it seemed like a lost cause – and crossed to Marianne.  ‘Ye’re nae getting’ out o’ cleanin’ mah kitchen that easily!’

She gasped in outrage.  ‘Me?  Why should _I_ clean _your_ kitchen?  I’m not your maid!’

He snorted.  ‘Uh, maybe because _ye’re_ th’one who started this mess in th’first place?’

She thought about it for a minute.  ‘Okay, that’s true.  But you escalated it.  She held out her hand.  ‘Split the work?’

He grasped her hand, swallowing it up in his own.  ‘Fair enough.  If ye nae try t’kill me while we’re workin’, Ah might even make ye breakfast when we’re done.’

‘Deal.’  They stood for a minute, holding hands and grinning at each other. 

Griselda could feel a big, sappy smile stretching across her own face.  She walked over to the island and set down her package with a thunk.  ‘Well, my work here is done.  I’ll be going now, Bog.  You kids behave.’

As she started down the hall, Bog called, ‘Wait, Mom!  Did ye want somethin’?’

‘Just grandkids before I’m dead,’ she muttered.  Raising her voice, she yelled back, ‘I was just dropping off that cake.  Happy Valentine’s day, you lovebirds!’  She dove through the door, slamming it behind her and cutting off Bog’s strangled squawk.

 

* * *

 

Bog stared at Marianne, who stared back.

‘Your mom is probably insane,’ she finally said.

He laughed awkwardly.  ‘Nae, she’s just tryin' t'drive _me_ insane.’

‘I think it’s working.’  She pointed to the box.  ‘You wanna check it out?’

‘Ah’m kinda afraid to,’ he admitted.

‘An understandable reaction.  Well, I’ll be the brave one, then.’  As she moved past him, he heard her mutter, ‘As usual.’

What was that?!’

‘What?’  She widened her eyes innocently at him, before approaching the cake box as if it were a bomb.  ‘If we die in the next five minutes, Bog, I just want you to know that it was a pleasure knowing you, and I totally won that flour war.’

He snorted.  ‘In yer dreams, fairy.’

She shook out her arms, wiggling her fingers as she brought them closer to the box.

‘Get on wi’ it, Indiana!’

‘Don’t rush me!  This is a delicate operation, and-'  She whipped the lid off the box.  Nothing happened.  ‘Huh.  Well, she didn’t rig it to explode, anyway.  But I think it must have gotten a little squished in transport.  Either that, or you mom has serious spelling issues.’

He came up behind her to look over her shoulder, her flour-dusted hair tickling his chin.  ‘Does that say “lofe”?’

‘It sure looks like it.’

‘D’ye think she was tryin’ t’write “love”?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘’Cause it might be “lore.”’

‘It might.  Or perhaps “lose”.’

‘Oh, aye, wi’ one o’ those medieval S’s that look like F’s?’

‘Yeah, those.’

‘Maybe it’s “lobe”.’

‘Or “lope”.’

‘How about “lode”?’

‘Or “loke”.’

‘Is that even a real word?’

She leaned back to nudged his chest with her shoulder.  ‘ _You’re_ not a real word.’

‘Oh, aye?’  He reached around her and scooped up a handful of the cake, right from the middle of whatever the word was, and smashed it into her mouth.  ‘Now ye can eat yer words.’

She started to yell but stopped, swallowing the cake and licking her lips.  ‘Oh, wow, that’s good.  Dawn and your mom should totally have a bake day together.  But I digress.’  Moving faster than should be humanly possible, she grabbed another handful of cake and smeared it over Bog’s face.  She misjudged the angle, so most of it ended up on his nose and his right eye.  ‘Death to tyrants!’ she cackled.

 

* * *

 

In her car, Griselda heard yelling interspersed with squeals and maniacal laughter.  She sighed dreamily.  It looked like her boy would be having a happy Valentine’s day after all.  Even if Bog and Marianne refused to admit – to themselves or anyone else - that they were a couple, Griselda knew the truth.  Mothers always know.  _Always._

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short, fluffy oneshot, but it mutated into a bloated - but still fluffy - oneshot. The original idea just had to do with her giving him the scarf, but then he had to go and answer the door dressed like the rebel timelord, and things went downhill from there.


End file.
